Screenplay
by k o u s e n
Summary: step, step, twirl .! » dance, dance, die. [for renée]


**screenplay;  
**(_you're the part of the play that matters the most…_)

It's step, step, spin and step, step, jump, and step, step, twirl. It's cautiously place your feet wherever they take you and fill the movements with color and life. It's smile and jump and twirl and land with a graceful bow and silently laugh and silently cry because this masterpiece has no sound.

---&

You move across the empty dance floor like you and it were meant to be. Your movements are graceful and poised with expertise and style and passion. Your feet touch the floor for mere seconds before moving off to the next spot, intent on touching every tile at least once. You don't worry about schooling your expression or perfecting your movements because this could be your last chance for one last dance.

Your eyes are searching out every detail of the painted ceiling. The swirls of color in this dome-shaped fortress consume you and spit you back out, only to suck you back in for more. Your gaze drifts as your feet keep moving, never faltering, never stopping. Your dress swirls around you with a mind of its own, matching the pace your feet have set. The taps of your heels on the stone floor match the beats of the heart in your chest.

You're all alone in this place and you couldn't feel more surrounded. You feel almost crowded with the only open path the dance floor in front of you. So you keep spinning and twirling and stepping until you're going in circles and starting over and over again. You're moving to the beat of your own music and breathing the words to your own song.

---&

Your feet have stopped moving; you're standing still, unmoving, unheard. Everything's spinning so you close your eyes, your smile still as bright as ever. When you reopen your eyes, everything is still and focused and god damn beautiful. Your chest is heaving from your graceful steps and flowing movements. Your eyes are bright and clear and everything around you is perfect.

You don't know exactly where you are. You woke up lying in the middle of the dance floor. You were in this beautiful dress with these wonderful shoes and your pretty hair was put in this pretty little bun. You stood up and started dancing because you just felt the need to.

You started to imagine what this place would be like, full of people. You imagined them watching you, as if the dance floor was a stage and your movements were the words in the play. You, of course, would be the part of the play that matters the most. So you kept dancing and moving and (_step, step, twirl_) and putting on the play. At the end, everyone came from their seats and crowded around the stage as you performed the encore. The never ending encore that kept you dancing and moving and performing this piece of work forever and ever.

When your movements stopped, you stood as still as you possibly could and imaginary flowers were thrown through the air. You smiled and closed your eyes, and when you reopened them, everyone was gone. But still, everything was perfect.

---&

You're no longer wearing that dress or those shoes and your hair is hanging in your face. The lights have gone off and you're in the dark, but your eyes see through the darkness. They see the dance floor and the chandelier and the seats and everything that matters to _you_. So you keep dancing.

This has suddenly all become a letter, and your mind has thought of something else to say. Your feet are the pen and you're scribbling the post script. You hastily move your feet, stepping with ease and flowing through the last of the paper. You spin and twirl and jump and close your eyes through the movements. You can see them better this way. You can't see the lights dim on your work like this; you can't see the end of the letter when it comes through.

Your mind has things to say and not enough paper. You're slowing down. This letter is coming to an end and the pen hates being left behind until next time around. The pen stops flowing and the paper folds, the envelope closes and the stamp goes on. You're standing still, and now, the spotlight's on you.

---&

You're getting tired but your story's not over. Your feet are hurting and your chest is heaving worse and worse and your throat is parched so it's hard to breath. Your feet move before you can think and the novel begins. You know this is the last act so the characters are thinned and the tension is high.

Once again, the pen is at work and the paper is unlimited. The touch of your toe to the stone floor is just another detail of the main character's life. This piece of work is coming together nicely, until there's a terrifying scene ahead, so your feet move faster and the characters run quicker from the monster in the shadows. If they don't, one more moment could mean one last breath.

You can feel your heart beating in your chest and the characters slow down as your feet falter. The monster is after them and the author doesn't know what to do. So you stop and you kill off the last characters. The book closes and you fall to the floor. Your dress, a new dress, a different cover, spreads around you and offers protection. Your face is in your hands and your heart is in your throat. You're gasping and smiling and everything is wonderfully written and pleasantly played. You're proud, so despite the weakness of your knees and the beating of your heart, you stand to bow.

Your imaginary audience is clapping and cheering and whistling and throwing more imaginary flowers and offering imaginary wine to the imaginary girl who can dance a perfect song. The step, step, twirl falls into place as you move for the door, stepping with grace and movements still flowing like the beginning of the show. You hurry towards the light because your career is over, the song is done. You're past the curtain call so nothing else is left.

Now, you're nothing more than an old memory.

---&

It's step, step, twirl and dance, dance, die.

---&

(**an)** Wow. By the time I finished this I was out of breath.  
I wrote it so fast and used so many story ideas in this one  
fic, I don't even know what to do. I guess you have already  
pictured someone since I didn't specify your character, and  
that's exactly what I wanted you to do. Pick your character.  
I picked Kairi, but it you picked Olette, let it be Olette.  
If you Picked Namine, let it be Namine. Hell, if you picked  
Larxene, let it be Larxene.

I totally confused myself while writing this, but I hope you liked  
it.

THIS IS FOR: **Ren; hearts, darling.**


End file.
